


Experienced Assistance

by justanotherStonyfan



Series: Hydra Trash Meme 2014 ongoing - blanket dub/non consent warnings [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, M/M, Masturbation, Other, Violence, Voyeurism, and a little brock/jack if you squint, that's more like just talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 17:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1866609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherStonyfan/pseuds/justanotherStonyfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the Hydra Trash Meme -<br/><i>Due to the adrenaline of a mission, the soldier is hard and isn't really sure what to do about it. Cue Rumlow or some other HYDRA agent (I have a soft spot for Jack Rollins?) talking him through jerking off. </i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>Shame (can the soldier feel shame? for the sake of the prompt let's say yes. maybe he's just embarrassed at his lack of knowledge in the area and he doesn't remember feeling pleasure like this??) and humiliation and awkwardness abounds. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Experienced Assistance

**Author's Note:**

> See end notes for warnings and spoilers.
> 
> *Police Camera Action voice* Viewer discretion advised.

**Russia  
November, 1996**

_Dot-dot-dot-dot dash-dot dot-dot dot-dash-dot-dot_ and Rollins doesn't bother giving the response before he opens the door.

The asset is inside with a blur of movement, the van door slams behind them and Rumlow gets moving – slowly. He knows better than to peel out with a squeal of tires and draw attention, but it's still enough as they hit the road to give them all the familiar rush of adrenalin. Ten more seconds and the asset would have missed his rendezvous, and they'd be on their way back to base without him.

It's necessary sometimes. The Winter Soldier knows how to get back by himself – providing a ride for him just means fewer bodies on the way back, but there are times they can't afford to stick around past a certain point. 

This one was pretty close and, from the sound of the chatter on the scanner, the Winter Soldier just narrowly avoided a firefight. Again, it's not something he can't deal with but, in their unmarked van down their little back street, they're out of trouble.

“Next time you ignore giving the coded response, rookie,” says Rankin, “you get to stick around and teach it to the Russkies.”

Gunner Rankin is a man of about fifty, which not only means the parents of a baby born during World War II were actually willing to call it 'Gunner' voluntarily (showing that they must have either had really poor judgment or really incredible foresight, and Rollins would bet on the former), but also means that he's going to be looking for a replacement damned soon. Rumlow's his SIC, and Rollins hopes that, one day, Rumlow will look at and trust him the way Rankin looks at and trusts Rumlow.

“Cut him some slack, wouldja?” Rumlow says, quietly enough that Rollins knows he's not supposed to have heard.

Rumlow is thirty-three, has deep laughter lines, skin like a peach and a bite that's worse than his bark already. Rollins looks up to him something awful. 

Rankin slumps down in his seat. 

“Fuckin' rookies,” he mutters.

“Come on, man, I was a fuckin' rookie once,” Rumlow says, and Rollins can see the stretch of skin at the side of his mouth that belies his smile. “Remember?”

“Remember?” Rankin answers with a good-natured snort. “I still get fuckin' night terrors about that shit.”

Which puts Rollins out of the line of fire for now. Rankin's voice has softened enough with Rumlow's gentle ribbing that he'll be in a better mood if Rollins just remembers to keep his mouth shut.

Still, at twenty-one years old, Rollins has only been in the business for maybe two years, doesn't speak much Russian (he speaks enough to give the asset standard orders), but understands enough of what's hissing through their clapped out little scanner to recognize _No! Where_ are _the bastards?_ and _Shit,_ shit _, Dimitri - Petrov's going to_ kill _us!_ and that's enough to tell him they're probably home free. Their van should still be within sight of the parking lot, and if Petrov's men don't already know it's them in the dirty, rusty, broken down little van now, then they won't figure it out.

The asset's breathing hard, hands clenched on the handles attached to the insides of the van – all their undercover vehicles are fitted with them – sometimes it's impossible to get away without putting your foot down, and they're prepared for all situations.

The asset lets go of one handle when it becomes apparent that the ride will be fairly leisurely, and tugs his gloves off his hands, wrenches the aviators from his eyes, snatches the scarf from where it rests over his nose and mouth like a muzzle. His hair's getting longer now, curling at the nape of his neck, dropping about his face in soft layers like Brad Pitt. He looks like a pussy, but Rollins' gelled back hair and Rumlow's crew cut wouldn't look right on him.

But the other thing he looks, always, is surprisingly young. He was born, so Rollins is told, in in the late nineteen-teens – nineteen-sixteen or seventeen or thereabouts – and they keep him in cryo most of the time so he's still only in his late twenties. Times like this, it shows. His skin is smooth and his eyes are clear and there's something about his mouth. He's not unattractive, but he's very definitely not the seasoned soldier Rollin's somehow always expects.

His eyes are wild, darting back and forth, and Rollins frowns at him, then looks over at Rumlow and Rankin. They're both dressed up for this. Rumlow's done up to the nines for this occasion – dressed in old coveralls and a woolen hat and a couple of other well-placed things that make him look like every other tired Russian van driver in the place. Vain bastard's even letting his stubble grow out over his baby face so that he looks like a genuine worker instead of the shining pinnacle of personal hygiene he usually is. Rollins kind of likes the stubble, not that he'll ever go mentioning shit like that to Rumlow. But Rumlow's facial hair is nothing to do with their situation.

“He's agitated,” Rollins says, and then he looks back to the Winter Soldier as he registers Rankin saying something like ' _who gives a fuck'_. “What's up with you?”

He keeps one hand on his gun, just in case. The asset deals with people who have their hands on their guns every time he's let out of his icebox – Rollins knows he wouldn't stand a chance. But it makes him feel safer.

The asset's gaze, eyes sharp and blue, flick towards Rollins and pin him with the kind of stare Rollins is glad he's never faced in the field – nobody wants to be on the wrong side of the asset – and he narrows his eyes slightly.

 _“Ob yasnyat,”_ he says.

Rumlow looks back over his shoulder as traffic begins to slow. 

“English, buddy,” he says.

The asset looks momentarily confused but finds the word he's looking for a moment later. 

“Explain,” he says, and the accent is thick. 

He's been speaking Russian for the past four days, Rollins isn't surprised some of it's sticking, but he knows exactly what the Winter Soldier's talking about.

“Old friends of yours,” Rollins answers, pointing at the asset's shining silver hand. “Petrov and Goremykin know who you were and stole plans from us. We figured it was poetic-”

“Hey!” Rumlow says sharply, and Rollins looks at him. “This isn't storytime, Rollins, he doesn't need a fucking reason, _Jesus._ Shut your mouth about it, you want to get us both dragged up in front of Pierce?”

And Rollins shuts up. There isn't anybody who _wants_ to get dragged up in front of Pierce.

The asset calms a little and Rollins tips his head back and shuts his eyes. The asset isn't going to do either of them any harm now – he was wiped prior to the mission and he'll be wiped again when they get back. For now, he's completed his only orders and has no other objective. They're all safe. 

Safer, actually, because they've got the Winter Soldier on their side.

They move forward, maybe twenty feet, and there's a red or something that they're stuck at. Rumlow sighs heavily. 

“We're never gonna get back like this,” Rankin says. “Should have authorised evasive maneuvers.”

Rollins snorts but the asset still looks...jittery is the wrong word. Worked up, maybe, hyperactive.

“Hey, relax,” Rollins says, “we should only-”

 _BANG BANG BANG_ and Rollins nearly jumps out of his skin.

Rumlow and Rankin look back between the seats to the van's back doors, and then Rumlow looks at his mirror, and then he sucks a breath in through his teeth. 

“Shit,” he says, and then a little louder, a little harsher. “Shit!”

“What is it?” Rankin asks, and Rollins feels his panic rising.

“What?” Rollins says.

“Fucking Russians,” Rumlow says, unbuckling his seatbelt. “They set up a roadblock up ahead, I have papers, I'll-”

He ignores it anyway.

 _“Nyet,”_ the asset says, so softly that Rollins almost doesn't hear.

“Rumlow,” Rankin says, “are you sure that's a good-”

_BANG BANG BANG_

_“Otkryt' etot furgon!”_ comes the muffled demand from outside.

“You have a better one!?” Rumlow said, turning around to look at the two of them instead, one hand on the back of his chair. “Speak any _Russian_ , do ya!?”

 _“Otkryt' dveri,”_ the asset says, and Rollins gives him a look he hopes is incredulous.

“Are you crazy?” he says, and Rumlow yells at them for it.

“Speak in fucking English, _both_ of you!”

“He says open the doors,” Rollins tells him, and Rankin snorts, digging around for ammo. 

“Fuck that,” he answers. “We've got orders-”

There's a different bang, a noise like a cough or a car door slamming shut, and Rankin's head snaps back, his body flying back against the dashboard before it slumps.

“Shit!” Rumlow yells, rearing back, and there's one hole in the van door and a matching one in Rankin's forehead.

The asset turns his head and, before Rollins can even say anything, he surges forward toward the back of the van – where one of the Russian Politsiya has, with incredible stupidity on his part, put an eye to the hole he's just made – and jabs his metal index finger through.

The scream that comes from outside is almost as awful as the squelching noise Rollins will never be able to un-hear, and it's nothing compared to the way his stomach rolls when the asset draws back to look at Rumlow, a mangled eyeball on the end of his index finger.

“Go!” Rollins says to Rumlow. “Jesus Christ, _go!”_

And the asset kicks the back doors of the van wide open with one loud _BANG_ , sending at least one other militsiya flying backwards so hard he bounces into a nearby car and crumples to the worn asphalt. The half-blinded one is still writhing and screaming on the floor and Rollins doesn't look as the asset crushes his skull with one foot, raising his gun instead because there's another one heading straight for the asset. 

“No!” Rumlow over his shoulder at the asset. “Fuck! Not _you_!”

There's another loud metal _clang_ and pain tears up the side of Rollins' face as he falls backwards with a cry. He doesn't know what hit him, only that it _hurt_ and he looks up to see a militsiya heading straight for him, getting two off in the guy's chest just as he hears the windscreen shatter. Rumlow curses, firing back as bullets whiz by over Rollins' head.

“What do I do!?” he yells, and Rumlow's voice answers back.

“Get the asset back in the fucking van! Strike to Nest, we're under fire – Red road block, I repeat, we're under fire!” 

The pain in Rollins' face is bad, he's go no idea what the hell is happening but he remembers the words he needs.

 _“Soldat!”_ he croaks, blood running down the side of his neck. _“Vozvrashchat'sya!”_

The asset is busy picking off Russian police officers as they come at him, but more are streaming down from the roadblock ahead and it won't be long before they're overrun. 

The asset will get out of this. There's a slim chance he might die trying if he doesn't quiet manage it, but Rollins knows that he and Rumlow have one chance – and that chance doesn't even remember its own name. The asset, in a display of defiance unlike any Rollins has ever seen from him, looks Rollins straight in the eye _and turns back to the fight_ , snapping another two necks and closing his metal hand around the muzzle of the nearest AK that comes up by his face, redirecting it into the chest of the next unfortunate militsiya before jamming it backwards into the face of the first.

He'd be stabbed in the next two seconds were it not for the fact that the blade skitters off his metal arm, and he turns the movement into something Rollins doesn't get the chance to see – Rollins registers a gun and ducks instead, two rounds hitting the inside of the van where his head was two seconds before and, when he fires back and checks on the asset, there's a militsiya on the ground grasping weakly at the knife in his throat, and another with a hole in his chest about the size of a fist, who dies in the few seconds Rollins spares him.

The radio is burbling something but it must be inconsequential because Rumlow doesn't respond, and he yells at Rollins a second later.

“Hold on!” he screams.

Rollins does because obeying his SO's orders is instinctive, grabbing at the nearest safety handle as Rumlow steps on the gas. There's a crunch, and Rollins is almost thrown to the floor of the van. They back up and do it again and Rollins holds on for dear life – Rumlow's shunting other cars out of the way and, if the sound is anything to go by, running over anyone stupid enough to get in the way.

Twice more and each jolt wrenches Rollins' arm in its socket, slams like a hammer on the inside of his head and his headache is worse, he looks down and finds himself covered in blood. His face has been hit and he doesn't know how but all that matters now is the squeal and grind of metal as the van lurches forward again – further this time, then further.

 _“Seychas!”_ Rollins screams, and the asset turns, starts running as Rumlow _floors_ it, and jumps into the back of the van when they're going what must be fifty down an alley. 

He wrenches the doors closed behind himself and twists the metal of the lock – and one of the handles – to keep it closed enough that, once they get onto the highway, Rollins can collapse to the floor and just stare up at the ceiling.

“I think we lost 'em,” Rumlow says, and he sounds tired, strung out. “You hit?”

“My face,” Rollins answers. “You?”

“Shoulder,” Rumlow answers. “Took one from the guys in front, what about the asset?”

Rollins winces as he turns his head, looks up at the startlingly blue eyes and strangely young face. The asset shakes his head.

“Nah, he's fine.”

“Figures,” Rumlow says. 

He's fumbling around with Rankin's body, doing something to it and then Rollins ducks again when there are three shots in quick succession, but there's nobody following them, they're not under fire. It's Rumlow firing his standard issue pistol and it doesn't take a genius to figure out why.

“Hold on,” Rumlow says, through gritted teeth, and Rollins manages to sit up just as Rumlow steers hard to the right, so that he ends up thrown against the seat.

The asset watches impassively as Rumlow _opens the passenger door_ and throws Rankin's body out, way out. They're on an overpass and Rankin's body goes down into the ravine. Rumlow made a mess of his face, they won't get dental records, and Rankin had his fingerprints burned away years ago – that much Rollins knows. Rumlow throws his tags back into the back section of the van, and the asset picks them up, hands them to Rollins.

Rollins nods his thanks, wiping away blood from his chin with the back of his hand before slinging the tags over his own neck. It's necessary – if he gets hit and goes down and Rumlow's forced to dump him, too, having both sets around his neck will save Rumlow the trouble of rifling through his pockets. Rankin knew the risks.

“That puts you in charge,” Rollins says, closing his eyes against the lancing pain in his jaw – whatever it was that hit him, he's lucky his jaw didn't break. “What's the plan?”

Rumlow grunts as he shifts properly back into the driver's seat and puts his foot down a little more.

“Safehouse,” he says. “Wait for extraction tomorrow, same as before – nobody's on our tail and we kicked up enough of a fuss in town that they'll be busy for a while.”

Rollins nods, hauls himself up to the seat and wavers. The asset reaches out and shoves him into his seat and buckles the belt for him, and Rollins doesn't care enough to do anything except shut his eyes and hope the pain stops soon.

~

It's quiet at the safehouse. Rollins would call it _too quiet_ but he knows better – they're good at what they do. The reason there's silence is because they're safe.

The stitches in his jaw don't just ache, they throb, and it sends pain lancing up into his eye. They don't have much by way of medical supplies but he dug the bullet out of Rumlow's shoulder and Rumlow stitched up his face. It's never going to be the same but he knows what they say – chicks dig scars. He's got bigger fish to fry anyhow – they're going straight to Pierce when they get back. The orders came through on the safehouse radio almost as soon as they'd locked the doors behind them.

There isn't much light – there aren't any windows and the place is mainly cold stone – so Rollins is seriously considering calling it a night and getting some shuteye while he can.

Rumlow is sleeping on the cot in the corner and Rollins could either join him or lie on the floor. He could probably just as easily sleep on the stone bench where he's sitting right now except that as soon as he shuts his eyes, pain is all he knows.

He sinks a little into dozing, letting the room and the concrete become distant, until footsteps rouse him slightly.

He cracks one eye open and watches as the asset walks into the room – he's back from his first perimeter check and he'll do more, of course. Probably on the hour.

But there's something different about his gait and, for a while, Rollins is genuinely afraid. He's got no idea what the hell kind of trouble they're already in for with Pierce anyway, but if the asset has an injury and didn't report it, they could all be in serious shit.

He watches silently for a little while, as the asset shuffles around with his head down, and pretends to be asleep – the asset will know he's not but it doesn't hurt to pretend. The asset won't consider him a threat if he's still and silent, which is best for all of them.

But it's less than two minutes later when the asset makes his way over, standing right in front of Rollins and going dead still a moment later.

 _“Ob yasnyat,”_ he says.

Rollins squints up at him – the bulb over head is feeble, much like the electricity supply – but he can see enough to register the asset staring down at him.

 _“Ob yasnyat,”_ the asset says again, but there's something different about his voice – it's low and rough like always but there's a distant note of confusion in it, and Rollins would prefer that the asset knows where he is and what he's doing.

There are stories that go around about the first few missions HYDRA sent him on, when he achieved his objective and then murdered every man on his team before extraction, thinking that his 'kill' order mean 'without discretion.'

“Explain what?” Rollins asks carefully, leaning forward just a little.

The asset's brow is furrowed, his eyes clear but uncertain, and his mouth forms a hard, white line.

 _“Ob yasnyat,”_ he says again, far more softly this time, and Rollins looks him up and down, trying to figure-

Oh.

 _Oh_.

“Uh...” Rollins says, and he looks back up at the Winter Soldier and shakes his head. “Explain what?”

“What,” the asset answers, the Russian accent turning the word to a long, deep, _vaat_ , “What _is_?”

Rollins leans back a little, well out of the asset's way, and glances over at Rumlow. Rumlow's dead to the world right now, wrapped up in a pathetically thin blanket on a stupidly filthy cot, face pale and his hair a mess, and Rollins doesn't get paid enough for this. Rollins doesn't get paid for this at all.

“It's...” and how the hell does he explain? “It happens,” he says eventually. “Adrenalin. It was a hard fight today-” mentally kicks himself for his choice of words “-and the adrenalin...it's...don't worry about it, okay?”

“What...can...do?” the asset says slowly, like every word is hard to find in the back of his mind, and Rollins drops his head into his hands, hissing in pain a moment later when he jars his stitches.

“Just...wait it out,” he says. “That's what you do, you wait it out.”

The asset shakes his head. “Since radio,” he answers, rolling the 'r,' so that it comes out _siyns rahdiyo_ “Have waiting.”

Christ, if he can't even properly construct a sentence he must be really far gone. Rollins knows the past couple of days have to have been difficult for him. And if he's been hard since they got here then...But there's no way he's going to...

Or maybe he doesn't have to.

Because it's...it's not like this doesn't happen. Not like some of them don't wind up like this sometimes; it's natural. It happens. And none of them bat an eye when someone needs five minutes in the back of a jet or the corner of a van or takes a little longer in the bathroom of a safehouse. 

It's just that this is the _Winter Soldier_ with a hard-on from post-fight adrenalin, not just anybody.

And...he _is_ attractive.

And it would be cruel to leave him like this, he reasons. Unfair. The asset clearly doesn't get it and Rumlow's completely asleep, there's nobody else to help him. 

They're there to take care of the asset, they're there to provide him with assistance when he needs it, if he needs it. And it's not like Rollins will be _doing_ anything.

It's just teaching, just...helping him for the next time this happens, if there's a next time, if the asset remembers. 

“Okay,” Rollins says, wetting his lips, “back up a little.”

The asset frowns but, as almost always, does as he's told and shuffles backwards two steps. His dick is straining at the confines of his pants, yeah, he really must have been hard for a while, and he's looking at Rollins, not down at himself. 

There's something really powerful about that, about the fact that the Winter Soldier trusts Rollins to give him orders. To help.

“Kneel down,” Rollins says, a little more sure of himself, a little more in control as he realizes just how much control he has when the asset sinks onto his knees. “Dicks aren't just for pissing, unzip your fly.”

The asset frowns at him, his young little face the picture of confusion, but he looks down to do as he's told.

“Ah-ah,” Rollins says, and the asset looks up at him, freezing, afraid of disobeying. “Use your other hand.”

The asset's eyes narrow just a little but he does as he's told, metal hand unfastening the clasp, dragging the zipper down.

Rollins nods his approval when the asset looks to him for confirmation, casting a glance towards the still-sleeping Rumlow before he looks back.

“Take out your dick,” he says, and the asset looks down and does as he's told, untucking the length from whatever underwear he's been issued with.

His cock is slim and long and hard enough that Rollins can tell he's uncut though the head's already uncovered and glistening with precome. Rollins sucks in a breath as the asset lets go and his erection just stands there, pale though redder at the tip, stark against the black of his pants.

“Right,” Rollins says, scraping his teeth over his lower lip as he nods slowly.

The asset looks confused, still agitated, but there's something else there, something new, something Rollins has never seen in him before. 

He stares at the asset until the asset _looks away_ , and Rollins has never seen him do that.

“You shy?” he says, and the asset's shoulders hunch just a little.

He's _shy!_ Oh, Rollins has hit the fucking jackpot.

“Take off your shirt,” he says, and it's not necessarily _essential_ but why not make this good for him? 

Why not help him out a little?

The asset straightens just a little, beginning to unfasten the straps across his chest, one by one, until he can slide it off his body.

“Just drop it,” Rollins says. “Doesn't matter, don't think about it. Just...yeah.”

The asset has a body to match his face – smooth and young and hard, even the scars of his metal arm kind of attractive somehow, and Rollins didn't realize what a mess has been made of it. He knew it was there but he figured maybe it just...popped on and off like a doll, or fit over like a cover, like an amputee's. This is fused to his skin with huge, fat, shiny pink scars that still look like they might hurt even now. And he has muscle definition like a fucking supermodel. Rollins chuckles about it before he thinks not to.

The asset's gaze snaps up to meet his, and Rollins shrugs a little. 

“Not you,” he says, “I was thinking of something else.”

And, just like that, the asset goes back to kneeling silently with his head down and his shirt off and his cock out, trusting Rollins to his word.

Rollins lets him kneel for a minute or two, waiting to see if the cooler air will make him flag at all. It doesn't, and Rollins doesn't know why that is but he doesn't much care – the asset's a pretty picture to look at and they're not being extracted until tomorrow.

But eventually, he feels his own cock stir in his pants, smiles a little to himself about it and sets his head back against the wall, eyes still on the Winter Soldier. 

“Show me your hands,” Rollins says, a slow smile curving his lips, and the asset holds them out, palms up, like an offering. “I don't care if you look at me or not but I want your head up.”

He wants to see the Winter Soldier's face because, if he's right, this ought to be pretty damned good. And it takes a second or two but the Winter Soldier lifts his head, soft hair falling back out of his eyes as he does. He doesn't look at Rollins, keeps his eyes down, but that doesn't matter.

“Play with your nipples,” Rollins says, hates the words in his mouth but wants the visual, and the asset frowns again, looks up at him helplessly.

He's got no idea what Rollins is talking about, and Rollins swallows the glee and nods down at the asset's chest. 

“Lift your hands to your chest and do this,” he says rubbing his fingers together, stroking the pads of his thumbs over the pads of his index and middle fingers, like rubbing pastry or making the universal 'money' sign, “to your nipples.”

The Winter Soldier still looks confused but, slowly, he does as he's told, looking down at himself as he lifts his hands to _locate_ the damned things, doing exactly what Rollins has told him to do once he finds them.

It takes about three seconds before the asset's beautiful blue eyes glaze over just a little, mouth falling open from that thin white line.

“Yeah,” Rollins says, resisting the urge to copy him, “that's it. Feels good, doesn't it?”

The asset's gaze, shy and dark under his lashes, finds Rollins' own, and he still looks so confused.

“It's a _good_ feeling,” Rollins clarifies, because he knows the lack of knowledge is the asset's current problem. “It's a response that your body interprets as...” he searches for the word, “beneficial.”

The asset still looks unconvinced, and Rollins sits forward.

“It's an irritation if you stop,” he says. “But even then, it's not detrimental. It's not like an injury. It's...like the opposite of pain. Right?”

Slowly, confusion still etched into his features, the asset nods.

“Right,” Rollins confirms. “That's a 'good feeling.'”

He spares a glance for Rumlow as the asset's gaze turns distant again, but Rumlow hasn't even moved.

“Pull a little,” Rollins says, the Winter Soldier looking up for confirmation. “Keep doing what you're doing but rougher. Pull on 'em while you're doin' it.”

The asset complies and his eyes flutter closed this time, a sigh passing his lips as his head tilts back just a little and his cock twitches. It's a slow lift and fall of the hard length where it juts out, still untouched, and Rollins wets his lips again, rubs the palm of his hand down his thigh because his hands are itching.

“Pinch one,” Rollins says, and the asset complies before he even registers the order, his next breath hitching in the back of his throat, cock drooling enough that a drop of precome drips from the end of it and hangs down ever lower until it connects the head of his cock to the floor on a long, thick string of it. “You like that?”

The asset's brow furrows again, tension coming back to his shoulders. 

“It means that you'd like more of what you're feeling,” Rollins tells him. “It's good, that means you like it. You like it means you want more.”

The asset nods, a little more quickly this time.

“Want more,” he says, _vaahnt moor_ , and Rollins smiles.

“Do this next part slow,” he says, “and only do exactly what I tell you. You can't touch your dick yet, you understand?”

The asset nods, holding his lower lip between his teeth in a way that might cliché if Rollins didn't know it's completely genuine.

“Good,” Rollins says. “Stroke your hands down your body, onto your legs and then all the way back up. Nice and slow. Do it like they do to you when they measure you for a new suit.”

And the asset does, without question, does exactly what Rollins tells him. Rollins could tell him to tuck himself back in and lie face down on the floor until extraction if he wanted and the asset would probably do it.

“You can play with your nipples some more,” Rollins says once the asset's hands are back up on his chest, the long, smooth stroke down and up having made his cock twitch again. “Harder this time, do it faster.”

The asset does, and his head tilts back and comes forward again, eyes half open.

“Like that?” Rollins says softly, and the asset doesn't look at him but nods nonetheless. “You want more?”

“Want more,” the asset echoes again, nodding. _“Khochu bol'she,_ want more.” 

Rollins smirks at him, looks him up and down and settles in for a short show – it's not going to be long with the way things are. Last time the Winter Soldier did something like this was probably in a trench in Europe in '45, so his body isn't used to it. His mind doesn't even remember what he's supposed to do.

“Look at me,” Rollins says, and the asset lifts his head slowly, still rolling his nipples between his fingertips. “I want you to keep your head up even if you can't keep your eyes open.”

The asset catches his lower lip between his teeth again and nods slowly.

 _“Da,”_ he whispers, cock still hard and drooling.

“Stop what you're doing,” Rollins tells him, and he doesn't even think for a second that the disappointment he sees in the asset's face is imagined. “Can you hold a crowbar?”

The asset's hands are still where they rest against his chest, because Rollins has only told him to stop and not to put them down, and he nods.

“Show me,” Rollins says and, frowning down at his metal hand, the asset holds it out, curling his fingers around an invisible length before he looks back up to Rollins for confirmation. “Yeah, that's good. Hold your dick like that.”

The asset looks at his curled fingers and drops his real hand to his thigh, curling his metal fingers around his cock the way Rollins has told him.

“Yeah, but hold it tight,” he says, and the asset squeezes his fingers and gasps softly. “Good, good, that's it, you're doing fine.”

Rollins shifts a little where he sits, smile aborted as the movement makes him aware of just how hard he is.

“Now,” Rollins says softly, mimicking the grip with his own hand. “Move your hand up and down your cock, like this.”

And he shows the asset, with a couple of mimed strokes, exactly what he should do to bring himself off.

The rush of power when the Winter Soldier complies, and immediately gasps a broken _“Ah!”_ sound and looks down at himself is more that Rollins had anticipated, warms his blood and makes him smile through that stretches the fresh stitches.

“There you go,” he says. “Now doesn't that feel good?”

 _“Khorosho,”_ the asset answers, eyes closing again, “ _tak khorosho,_ so good...” 

He lets the asset continue like that for a little while, the slow movement of his hand pulling soft little half-strangled moans from him, and Rollins flicks a glance at Rumlow just in case. Rumlow's still out.

The asset shudders and his shoulders drop forwards as his body curls a little, but he keeps his head up and Rollins watches – stares – as pleasure flickers across his face. 

He's evidently got no idea what's headed his way, and Rollins briefly considers letting him get right to the brink of orgasm and then telling him to stop or, better yet, letting him come but telling him to let go the instant it happens. He likes the idea that he could ruin the asset's first orgasm in fifty years with one command.

But he's not that cruel. At least, not for the asset's _first_ , not for the asset's first orgasm as the Winter Soldier. The second? Maybe. He'll see – a lot of it depends on what the asset looks like this first time. Maybe it'll be worth seeing a repeat, maybe the disappointment and confusion will be more appealing.

“Do that faster,” Rollins says, “and tighten your fingers.”

And the asset does, just because Rollins told him to, just because Rollins gave him an instruction. 

It works, and it's obviously going to take the, for once, inexperienced Winter Soldier no time at all to come from this. His mouth falls open when he can't bite his lip, his breathing harsh and sweat breaking out across his skin. The light glints off his metal arm with the rhythm of its movements, and Rollins presses a hand to his own cock to ease the pressure a little bit.

“Are you close?” Rollins asks, and the asset frowns.

 _“Blizkiy?”_ he whispers, mouth open and gasping. “Close where?”

Of course. The asset doesn't realize. That, in itself, is kind of amusing – that the asset doesn't know what's supposed to happen, that the asset has no idea that this isn't a constant, that this leads up to something. And Rollins doesn't feel the need to explain.

“Keep going,” he says, and the asset stares at him, fingers loose, chest heaving. 

_“Nyet,”_ he whispers, and Rollins frowns at him.

He sits forward, settles his elbows on his knees and stares down at the asset.

“No?” Rollins asks. “What the hell do you mean, 'no'?”

The asset flinches, turns his head away, and Rollins reaches out and turns it back.

“Answer me.”

 _“Slishkom,_ ” the asset answers, “too much. Become...detriment?”

Rollins frowns for a few more seconds, and then he gets it abruptly.

“Are you serious?” he asks, and the asset nods, looking so confused it's almost pitiable. _“No,_ it's not gonna _damage_ you! It's a natural thing, it's exactly what's supposed to happen!”

The asset looks unconvinced, and Rollins shakes his head.

“You feel it right here, right?” he says, tapping his lower stomach so that the asset can see. 

The asset nods, and Rollins slides the palms of his hands onto the insides of his thighs, spreading his legs a little while the asset watches.

“And you feel it here,” he says, resting his hands there until the asset nods, and then he slides one hand up, between his legs, squeezing gently, biting his lip to keep back the sound he wants to make. “And here.”

The asset follows the movements of Rollins' hands with hunger in his eyes, and he nods a little dreamily.

“Well that's what you're supposed to feel,” Rollins tells him. “It builds and builds, it gathers up like...like a dam.”

And Rollins knows the asset understands what a dam is – one of the sections of the briefing was the asset's previous missions, and sabotaging a dam was one of them. A small dam, granted, but he seems to understand.

“All the water collects behind a wall, and when you break the wall, all the water rushes away. Right?”

 _“Da,_ ” the asset nods.

“Well there you go,” Rollins says. “That's all it is. It builds up until it goes away, its not gonna _hurt_ you. It's gonna feel good, you just have to keep going.”

The asset frowns, looks down at where he holds his aching cock in one limp hand, and then he looks up.

 _“Odnako_...need for... _mochit'sya,”_ he says, struggling to find the words. “To piss.”

Rollins shakes his head. “That's okay, that's how it feels a little bit. And even if you gotta piss, you can go after. Okay?”

The asset nods and resumes his movements, and Rollins figures maybe it's because the asset isn't used to him. There's no way the asset would disobey a direct order from Rumlow. But Rollins is willing to let it go for now – he can punish later if he feels like it.

“Faster,” Rollins says, and the asset moans softly, body juddering forward and back again in a movement he's evidently not in control of.

 _“Nyet, nyet,”_ the asset says, complying anyway, and Rollins ignores his words.

 _“Da,”_ he answers. 

_“Podozhdite,”_ the asset whines, _wait_ , and Rollins doesn't let him stop.

 _“Bystreye,”_ he answers, _faster,_ and the asset complies because he's been told to.

_“Nyet,”_ he moans miserably, _no, “pozhaluysta-” please-_

_“Prodolzhat',”_ Rollins answers. _Keep going._

And the asset does for all of a few seconds before he gasps, body lurching. 

He stops breathing, his mouth falling open as his eyes squeeze shut, and he keens a moment later as his body doubles over, metal hand a blur on his cock, and Rollins watches in fascination as the asset's thighs tremble, body stiffening as his fingers seem to seize before he's coming hard in thick, white ropes across the concrete floor in front of him, hips jerking forward with each one, body convulsing as though he's having a fit.

It's beautiful, it's a work of art. Rollins could watch him for hours.

He lets the asset keep going for a while, lets him milk out the last of it, lets him go at his own pace without reprimanding him for slowing down. As for the floor, the asset can lick up the mess later, Rollins will make sure of that. 

And Rollins is just about to let the asset off the hook when the radio crackles on the other side of the room and Rollins damn near has a heart attack.

_“Strike, this is nest, come in.”_

Before he can say anything, Rumlow's uncurling himself from the ratty old blanket and reaching out for the radio, eyes hard and dark and fixed on Rollins.

“Strike,” he says, and then the codeword. “Blitzkrieg. Reading you loud and clear.”

_“Extraction originally set for oh-eight-hundred, do you require assistance before that time?”_

Rumlow doesn't take his eyes off Rollins, and Rollins is aware that the asset is whimpering softly.

“Negative,” Rumlow says. “Minor injuries sustained, all tended to for now. Extraction time confirmed for oh-eight-hundred.”

 _“Roger, Strike,”_ the radio responds. _“Nature of injuries?”_

“SO down and disposed of, GSW to SIC left shoulder, Rookie took shrapnel to the face.”

 _So that's what it was,_ Rollins notes distantly over the overwhelming fear that Rumlow's caught him at it and no mistake goes unpunished.

 _“Roger, Strike,”_ the radio says again. _“Confirm uninjured asset?_ ”

A muscle in Rumlow's jaw jumps and he visibly grinds his teeth before responding, eyes still on Rollins. 

“Negative,” he says again. “Original assessment incorrect – made under fire. Asset sustained trauma to genitals and is having difficulty walking.”

Rollins can see, out of the corner of his eye, the almost hopeful expression on the asset's face as his hand slows, and Rumlow does nothing but stare straight at Rollins.

 _“Roger, Strike, we'll have a team on standby. Nest out._ ”

And Rumlow puts down the radio and stands, walking over to both of them. He keeps his eyes on Rollins and Rollins knows there's something really vicious going on in that brain of his – he can see it in Rumlow's eyes.

And, just as Rollins is about to brace himself for the first of what he's sure is going to be plenty of blows, Rumlow looks away, sits down on the bench next to him and leans back against the wall, spreading his legs enough as he gets comfortable that Rollins doesn't miss the hard-on.

And then Rumlow leans forwards, elbows on his knees, and looks down at the asset, the asset staring right back up at him. And Rumlow smiles.

“Ya ne govoril, chto vy mogli ostanovit'sya,” he says, his Russian clear and perfect so that the asset's eyes widen helplessly.

_I didn't say you could stop._

**Author's Note:**

> When a mission goes awry, resulting in a particularly violent fight, the most senior agent is killed and the other agents and the asset barely make it out. While waiting for extraction from their pre-arranged safehouse, the adrenalin gives the Winter Soldier a long-lasting erection that's proving impossible to wait out. Confused, he turns to his handlers to assist. Rumlow is asleep, so Jack Rollins talks the Winter Soldier through bringing himself to orgasm, watching him the entire time.


End file.
